To Matthew, by Matthew:
Cast down your celebrities and live for your breathing backyard. In my kingdom, the poorer is the richer and the richer is the poorer. It sounds like an adage combed into the vast and bucolic biblical landscape, it sounds like a parable. The red carpet leads to Hades, whereas the wide-eyed lotto store pebble alley leads to the base of the effulgent laketown watertower, which is: “hallelujah”.
Success is humble direction steaming on rails around the bodies of poortown shining water; it is hollering so tacitly. It is passion for one’s self, as well as a veritable amplifier to perform for all the other holy and desireless, sweetly obsolete, t.v. for unplugged-furniture folks rolling through the narrow kitchens of illuminated summer.
And for the sorrowful and ignominious starlets and heirs, with pockets leaden and a complexion so lurid, with cars speeding and tongues cutting the insides of their own spoiled mouths, fucking their sloganeers and scolding New York City’s gorgeous upper shoulders—east and west—from an echoing, gaping, orifice of a place in burning L.A. …find the wide-eyed poorman’s alley and dumb your mind to celebrities and the gloss streaked toilet paper of People magazine, before that beckoning watertower dumbs its doming streams of light from you.
Because sometimes, for some reason, the prodigal son is born into a way so unconscionable that he never does return, an odious trick indeed.
goodbye status goodbye jealousy goodbye determinism
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